


Tabula Inscripta

by svegliatevi



Category: Dune - All Media Types, Dune Series - Frank Herbert
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:21:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23640742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/svegliatevi/pseuds/svegliatevi
Summary: Piter was not a thing devoid of personality; in fact, he appeared to suffer from its excess.A much younger Rabban and Piter meet for the first time. Neither makes a positive impression.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	Tabula Inscripta

**Author's Note:**

> This is related to “[Of Time and Means](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23288434),” if you squint. (This was actually written first.) I thought Rabban's perspective would be an interesting way to examine how Piter is sometimes an "it" when discussed as a Mentat; he's regarded as both sub-human and super-human, but it's always going to be the human aspect that takes precedence in a "human computer."

The creature had been sitting motionless for several minutes before Rabban entered the room. 

His uncle’s new Mentat, so long-awaited, had been transported to Giedi Prime some few weeks prior from Tleilax. The Baron had sent along a correspondence to Carthag confirming the acquisition of such precious property, that Rabban would be made aware. 

Rabban had not much cared. He understood the value of a Mentat, but the last had little relevance to him; he avoided his grandfather’s impertinent hand-me-down as a rule, and the Baron allowed it, preferring to conspire with the old man about fief matters in private. Rabban surmised that they discussed him in his capacities as an heir, and that many of the Baron’s sudden directions to him — and his abrupt rejections — had arisen at the Mentat’s behest. 

He hoped that the new one would not be so meddlesome. Though the last one, in its way, had directed Rabban however indirectly to Carthag and Lankiveil’s present prosperity, Rabban disliked the element of secrecy.

He was, perhaps, to be the na-Baron one day. This new Mentat would not retreat so easily behind his uncle’s desk. Rabban would not give it the luxury of spurning him — and carefully, very carefully indeed, he had suggested the necessity of such conditions to the Baron.

He had waited to see his uncle in person before making any suggestions, the better to gauge his responses, which Rabban found difficult to predict. “My lord,” he began, choosing his words slowly, “I would have more involvement with this one. If you see fit.”

“Make no mistake,” the Baron had said, “this Mentat is my property — but it shall be a blank slate, Rabban, not a temperamental relic.” He had resumed seeing to a morsel of his meal, one beringed finger held up to command Rabban’s silence as he chewed, swallowed. “You will have the privilege of seeing it at work, and benefiting from its functions — for, indeed, you may yet command it one day.” He said so as if it pained him to admit as much, then quickly added: “Ah-h-h, I must have you introduced presently. Yes, you ought to meet him.”

Rabban knew that his uncle thought him stupid. He did not think himself a Mentat, to be sure, but he was able to learn in his own slow and persistent way, and he had learned certain gestures and turns of phrase common to the Baron. It stood out to him when the Baron sighed in that abrupt way, always a sudden segue into some decision the Baron wished to downplay. Most of all, it stood out to Rabban that the Baron persisted in discussing the Mentat as a tool or a machine, despite the necessity of its humanity — yet it did make sense. 

That was what it was, a Mentat. It worked within a human skin, no doubt, with human drawbacks, but it was merely a newer model of an out-of-date predecessor: a thing. Rabban had seen how little good it did to treat its predecessor as a man, a human like any other: it merely made the old cretin arrogant, as if entitled to rights beyond its caste. 

He wondered why other Houses still persisted in that farce, making friends and peers of their Mentats. The heirs trained up to be Mentats were different; their wealth and station made them immune to the regard that even the greatest advisors were lowered to as mere purchased tools. But even those common Mentats were so often afforded greater freedom by other Houses. 

Perhaps it was a product of that lingering fear and superstition that screamed through the O.C. Bible in the Butlerian Jihad’s wake — if a machine was not to be created in man’s likeness, then man should not be treated as machine. To do so would make him less a man, less human, would indoctrinate him obliquely to the machine-attitude. Perhaps that was it. 

It seemed sentimental, and stupid — and though Glossu Rabban supposed that he himself was stupid, he knew that he was not given to sentiment. He could find no sentiment in him for anything other than the pleasure of killing, maiming, crushing. And because he could not kill this Mentat if he wished to — not promptly, at least — he could find no sentiment to spare on its behalf.

It did not even blink at Rabban as he entered the Baron’s private library. For some time before entering, he had watched from behind the door, through the two-way glass set in the painted and overwrought pilingitam wood, hoping to get a read on the thing before having to encounter it in the flesh. All the Baron had deigned to offer was a name, to ensure that Rabban would pronounce it correctly, and a dismissive warning not to damage his new acquisition somehow. 

This creature, Piter, had not come cheap.

It was yet strange to watch. To Rabban’s eyes, the Mentat seemed to be sitting aimlessly, doing nothing, as if an object waiting to be used, a weapon on a rack. Like a sword awaiting a grip about the pommel, the Mentat sat rigidly upright, hands folded in its lap. Rabban did not know what to make of it. Perhaps it was analyzing the shelves, memorizing the filing system. 

He opened the door with some abruptness, wondering if it would startle. It did not jump or twitch, but turned slowly, fluidly, to appraise him. 

“You’re the Mentat, then,” Rabban blurted out. The heavy door swung shut behind him with a thunderous noise.

“Yes,” the Mentat agreed, unmoved. “My lord Rabban, I presume.”

“Count Rabban,” Rabban insisted. He felt uncomfortable under the scrutiny of its unblinking eyes. So accustomed to the void-dark eyes of his Harkonnen kin, epitomized in the eclipsing spider-blackness of his uncle’s gaze, he disliked the pinprick starkness of the Mentat’s pupils visible amid their irises. The eyes were large under heavy lids, and already creased beneath with thin lines of fatigue. They were deep gray, or perhaps a dark blue — a color cold and industrial, regardless. Even the whites appeared to have a cold cast at the corners. Rabban did not wish to look at them long enough to tell. “Do you make a habit of staring, Mentat?”

It blinked. Mockingly, Rabban suspected, and for a moment he longed to crush his thumbs into those alienating eyes until they popped. The thought calmed him.

“I am trained in the alertness of the mind and body, Count Rabban.” The Mentat's voice was cold, though melodic in a way Rabban could not place. Tenor, he noted — a voice higher than his own, but harsh and mature, not at all boyish. No Mentat appeared youthful, or innocent, but this one in particular seemed older than his years. This was at once a machine and a man, the same as the old Mentat had been.

That disappointed Rabban somehow, yet it left him relieved in equal measure. The illusion of a jointed automaton left unattended had been broken, and here before him sat something else — canny for all its uncanniness, and rough for all its polish. This was no doll — not in the least. And it was no thinking machine.

Rabban let the comment pass, not wishing to betray his discomfiture. _A blank slate_ , he reminded himself.

Before he could speak again, the Mentat continued. “Does milord require Piter’s services?”

That, Rabban did not like either — the way it did that. How it spoke of itself as if it was not quite there. 

“Our last Mentat did not like me for the heir,” he found himself explaining, blunt to keep the bitterness at bay. “The weight of two planets is heavy without a Mentat, you understand. I’ve borne the weight enough. The Baron wants to ensure that you’ll be more cooperative.” That stretched the truth, he knew, putting words into the Baron’s mouth, but it was serviceable for his purposes.

The Mentat called Piter surveyed him silently before nodding assent — once, sharply. “Certainly. The Baron’s discretion, of course, supersedes other command, you understand.” There was a wariness in Piter's affect, quickly stifled, and Rabban scowled; indeed, why would the Baron not deliver such an order himself?

The Mentat continued. “But where I am obliged—”

“You’ll obey me,” Rabban concluded, with no small amount of force in his tone. “I will be Baron, in time.”

Piter’s lips thinned. “I might advise you now, Count Rabban, to take care that you do not speak too precipitously for the Baron’s liking.”

Shoulders squared, Rabban scowled, lips drawn back in disdain from bared, blunt teeth. “Are you his recording device, then?”

“Oh, my, no,” Piter said, dryly. “Though I expect a number of them have been installed in this Keep, have they not?" The Mentat still seemed untouched by any semblance of fear, but its manner struck Rabban as flippant. “I am a Mentat, and indeed I am the Siridar Baron Harkonnen’s advisor, and he has already made quite clear his distaste for hasty conduct. As I’ve demonstrated, however, I am more than able to advise Count Rabban, as well.” 

It smiled, then, in a shrewd and sardonic way, and Rabban saw the cracking of the Mentat mask.

Some invisible fissure revealed the man beneath, the clever chimera that gleamed in his eyes and emerged when he opened his mouth. 

This creature had a mouth, to be sure, with teeth made to rip and tear and a tongue as silver and deadly as mercury. He talked too much. Perhaps Piter did not yet realize that his tongue was merely a privilege to be taken away, were it misused.

Rabban snorted. “Decisions about my fiefdom aren’t to be made without me. So long as you understand that.”

For a brief moment, some emotion seemed to cross Piter’s face; he seemed to look at Rabban as if he thought him naïve, but it flickered away to placidity and Rabban could not be sure. He resented the replacement of the mask; it returned too quickly, and Piter was unreadable and distant again. “M’lord shall be granted all due consultation, assuredly.”

“Good.” Rabban folded his arms over his chest. “Good, then. I’ll see to it that stays true.”

Piter tipped his head forward in another crisp, single nod. “Will that be all?”

Piter rose, and Rabban observed his form — saber-thin, and shorter than Rabban himself, as many men were. He was dwarfed by a great deal in Rabban’s hulking shadow, but he did not appear intimidated as he approached him. Though he was neither short nor tall in excess, his illusory leanness made him appear taller at a distance. The fabric pauldrons over his shoulders evoked the notion of some winged creature in relief and broadened his silhouette, but slight though he was, he was composed of nothing but sharp edges and cruel, harsh angles. He was gaunt, and his countenance was touched overall with a birdlike hauteur. Rabban thought him ugly.

He had a deadly look to him, once he had risen. No longer did he appear to be a discarded tool — this was a whetted blade, poised to draw blood. Still, Rabban was not concerned. This was also a man he could snap over his knee if he wished, and that comforted him. He had killed many others like him before, just as lean and cruel and quick. 

Rabban lifted a hand in a dismissive wave. “No.”

“How else may Piter be of service?”

“I don’t need your services now, Mentat.” Impatience shaded Rabban’s voice. “But I’ll speak to you, and you will listen.”

Piter did not appear especially partial to this notion, but he was powerless to refuse.

“You’ve been here nearly a standard month, yes?”

Piter hesitated, as if to dispute the precise length of his employment. “That’s so,” he agreed, abandoning the compulsion in favor of proper deference, a notion which appeared to inconvenience him.

“The Baron did not tell me ‘til now that he’d sent for one so young,” Rabban observed. “I’m sure you know that you’ve succeeded an old relic. I suppose you’ll last longer, but...” He glanced at Piter's face. "Well, there are many Mentats to be found in the million worlds, if not."

It was a crude thing to say, but there was truth in its innuendo; the Baron would not suffer a useless thing for long, but if Piter did prove useful, he would wring every ounce of utility from him until none was left. The tradition of maintaining an ancient Mentat well past his threshold of use had fallen out of favor indeed with House Harkonnen. It stood to reason that the Baron would seek one fresh out of his second decade, one with many years left in him — one to shape and mold in the decades to come.

Rabban knew that it was untoward of him, perhaps even to the point of toeing a line the Baron had insisted upon. It would not be outlandish to interpret such a statement as a direct and unprovoked threat. But if Piter was indeed as shrewd a Mentat as he was meant to be, Rabban suspected he would evaluate it correctly. Rabban knew the potential in the words he chose. He wished to remind Piter that he was disposable — that he was not to hold any power over Rabban's head.

And he wished to observe Piter’s response.

Though it was subtle, Piter looked to him with unreserved offense — conveyed in a twist of the mouth, a sharp movement of his brows, a flaring of the nostrils. For several seconds, the expression did not fade, as if Piter could not conjure up a mask to conceal it. “What does my lord know of procuring Mentats, pray tell?” he asked.

There, again, was his naked human face. Rabban prided himself momentarily on drawing it out for observation — but even so, Piter seemed to deploy it with strategic precision, as if it were but another disguise.

Shrugging, Rabban replied, "I don't claim any expertise. But I know what's obvious: you Mentats are a good and a service both. Where there is demand — and there is plenty — there'll be supply enough."

Piter's features crumpled in incredulous distaste, exaggerated and yet strangely lifelike. "Oh, there are a great deal of lesser Mentats available, indeed." His lips thinned. "Speaking at great length of that which one doesn't know is not an enviable quality, Count." He chose each word with care, and each one snapped off his tongue dripping with condescension. His audacity might have been impressive, were it not so infuriating. Rabban wondered if he dared speak to the Baron thus.

Rabban fought to calm himself, remembering his purpose in meeting his uncle's newest weapon. "Perhaps," he conceded, longing to leave a welted handprint on the Mentat's high cheekbone, a token for his impudence. "I offered you a word of caution, and you have offered the same."

"I shall thank my lord," Piter began, too bold entirely, "not to rely upon me for such base causes as that. My capacity as an advisor is wasted on such trivial matters."

“One knows better than to misuse a tool for the wrong purposes,” Rabban replied.

With some effort, Piter recovered his placid mask, suffocating his expression into a strange smile. “I would take it unkindly indeed,” he said, his voice suddenly frigid and clipped.

“Good,” Rabban said. “You weren’t purchased to be kind.”

Rabban let the topic die, content with the results of his expedition: he had struck a nerve. The mind, he knew, made the connections it was taught to make — and so he knew now what Piter had learned to dread.

There was yet a limit in this man of few limits, then. That might be a lever to animate him, Rabban recognized, some measure of dignity that would fight against an insult to his devilish pride. He knew himself replaceable. As a Mentat, he could not help but know; it was simple data. Even so, he resented it. He would not deny it, but he did not wish to give Rabban the satisfaction of calling it out.

A lever indeed, but a delicate one; it was not to be used too often, or perhaps at all, lest it stick and break, lest it provoke something.

Rabban supposed he had seen the first brief flicker of fear in Piter at that moment, smouldering in an equally brief expression of anger. Had the Tleilaxu advised him to guard himself carefully from his new master's executioners? Or had the Baron already described to Piter his philosophy of waste — not to dispose of a useful man until his use had been expended? How useful did Piter think he could prove himself? One day, months or years or decades hence, he would still lose his value. Like any hard-used tool, he would wear down. It only remained to be seen whether he would do so quickly, or whether he would last long enough to be break even on the expenses of acquiring him.

For the moment, it did not matter. It was only of consequence that House Harkonnen owned him — but it was well to know what moved and compelled him. This was not, in earnest, a blank slate. There were yet human foibles inscribed on his very soul, if indeed he possessed one at all. Piter was not a thing devoid of personality; in fact, he appeared to suffer from its excess. That would have to be monitored.

It occurred to Rabban that the trajectory of the conversation had lost its way. He had intended to discomfit the Mentat with an insinuation and watch his response for subtle tells, but Rabban did not excel at subtlety. He had been too brusque, too forthright. He recognized as much, even as he decided not to dwell upon it. Rabban was satisfied, for despite his lacking execution, he had still spoken with measured intent and achieved his goal in doing so. He would make no apologies to this mere servant. He would not let this cunning creature see him bend a knee to its secretive sensibilities, those dreadfully boring assassin mindgames.

“A month, then,” Rabban continued. “Giedi Prime keeps one busy, or so I am told. You’ve yet to set foot in the other fiefs?”

“That’s so,” Piter agreed, in the same curt tone. 

Rabban expected as much. It would have offended him to learn that the Mentat had been brought to one of his fiefs without his knowledge, but the old Baron still kept things from him, and he had to be certain. He still wished to maintain an illusion of control in such matters as that. “I have reports incoming from my people in Carthag that should be of interest.”

“I’ll be interested to see them,” Piter said. His tenor voice took on a measure of greater lightness, but there was no ease in his manner.

“Soon enough.” It pleased Rabban to imagine that he might control the flow of information to this Mentat — that he might squeeze and throttle it if he so wished.

“Ah, to be sure. Until then,” Piter began, and he walked past Rabban without hesitation or permission before turning and inclining his head once more, sweeping an arm in a sardonic bow. “It has been a pleasure, Count Rabban," he lied.

“Likewise,” Rabban sneered.

Piter paused as he drew the library door open. “I hope you will not make a habit,” he said, his voice low and saccharine, “of saying things which will vex Piter too greatly. Otherwise, I think you shall miss your previous Mentat.” And his lithe shadow slipped out of the room.

The door fell shut, leaving Rabban alone in the deafening silence.


End file.
